Words
by PurpleAsteroid
Summary: A Hetalia fic compilation. Each story revolves around a single word; they may be romantic or not, long or short, angsty or light.
1. Intoxicating - nyo LietBel

It was a well-known fact that Nikolai Braginksy loathed Elena Laurinaitis.

Well, to everyone else, anyway.

To everyone else, Nikolai avoided Elena; he looked down at her, he accused her of everything he could and blamed her whenever his sister got upset.

It was an awfully easy act considering the glaring contrast between the two.

Nikolai was the younger brother of Anya Braginski, a woman that made people tremble with her eerie, sweet smile. And Nikolai was the only person who could scare her, though it didn't seem as if he himself knew it.

Nikolai knew how to fight, to handle knives; he was silent, cold, intelligent and possessive, with piercing indigo eyes and platinum hair.

For Elena, he was simply _intoxicating._

Nothing had ever fazed her before, nothing as much as Nikolai did. He made her knees go weak, sent burning heat to her cheeks and a thrilling shiver down her spine.

But then, she knew that her little crush was way out of bounds. For why would Nikolai Braginsky spare her a second glance; the shy, unnoticed secretary?

Oh no, Nikolai was not for Elena. Elena was the girl people passed by but never gave attention to unless they needed help.

And besides, them, together? That would be almost laughable.

And what would people say? Feliks, Elena's best friend, would throw a hissing fit at her. And the others...

Well, what they didn't know wouldn't hurt them.

They didn't need to know of it all; of secret, sometimes stolen kisses in narrow halls and darkened offices, of few silent seconds after closing time after everyone else had left.

The first time was long ago, in the corridor leading to Elena's small office on a quiet night. It was a kiss far too long and hungry to be innocent.

He didn't talk about it afterwards, he had left. The next morning he still said nothing and remained cold towards her.

For Elena, however, it had haunted her for days on end, plaguing her dreams and daydreams and driving her imagination crazy.

As did everything that came after it.

But he was always as if it had never happened. They would pass in the halls, with Elena's heart pounding wildly in her chest as she hoped for any kind of reaction, but there was never any as he would brush by her.

It was some sort of maddening cycle, one she desperately tried to escape.

First were those few, breathless, _intoxicating _moments, and then after that came nothing at all, after breaking apart.

But neither would acknowledge the other until his next move.

Oh, if Feliks knew. These kind of relationships he would make a face at and call 'pathetic'. If he knew it was _Elena _ _and Nikolai's _relationship...well, all hell would break loose.

Nobody hated Anya and her family as much as Feliks.

But Nikolai had told her not to breathe a single word about it. He'd told her only once, in a dark corner of her office and with a steely glint in his eyes, but it had branded into her memory forever.

"You are not to tell anyone, you understand, Elena?"

If she closed her eyes, she could remember everything. Lips grazing her ear, fingers closed tightly around her wrists, her name in his voice and...and..._him. _Everything.

But why Nikolai did it, to kiss her in that corridor on that night long ago, Elena never knew.

It was simple, really.

In Elena, Nikolai saw a fire that burned brightly and passionately. Yet, it was hidden under that mask of submissiveness to others, especially to Anya.

This was the girl who had beaten Gilbert Beilschmidt, the fighter. But at some point, somehow, Anya had gotten to her. And here she was.

But despite his cold, silent act, she knew, or at least, tried desperately to convince herself that he felt _something _for her. She had to have seen it, even for only a glimpse in those eyes.

Oh, he hardly ever talked to her, even in thos_e_ moments. Like the first, he would always leave without a word and she was left in the hallways confused and angry and alone.

There hadn't been a single exchange of a simple "I love you". Of course Elena would practically slap herself whenever the thought came to mind.

Nikolai. Saying that. To _her. _What a joke.

No. Elena was completely enamored with him and he had her totally wrapped around his finger and boh of them knew that far too well.

_Pathetic,_ as Feliks would call it again.

Nikolai gave her nothing but empty expectations and nervousness and crazy dreams and disappointment and...well, those dizzying few moments with him.

Maybe she could wait just a bit longer.

~  
_Uhh, hi. It's been a while since I've written, forgive me _ _and my writing. I'm just going to explain a few_ _things_ _on_ _Elena._

_Right, so anyways some might get angry at the portrayal _ _of Elena in this fic. I guess I did make her seem a_ _bit_ _weak and, well, some girl pining for some guy, didn't I. _ _Again, _I'msorry_. I know fully well what she and her _ _original counterpart is capable of._

_Also, for those wondering about Nikolai's surname- "_ _Arlovskaya" seemed a bit...off to me. Sorry. Also, in this AU (human AU, by the way) he is Anya's actual younger brother. _

_The_ _original_ _idea_ _for_ _this_ _was_ _a_ _small_ _ficlet_ _of_ _her_ _admiring_ _Nik_ _from_ _a distance or something, but the _ _concept_ _of_ _both of them having this _ _strange_ _, _ _maddening (for Elena) relationship was wayyy to tempting for me NOT to write_ _. _ _What _ _Nikolai _ _makes of it, I leave that to your imaginations._


	2. Spontaneity - PruAus

Roderich Edelstein's world was small, elegant, familiar. It was where his music stayed, encompassing him with calming melodies that flowed steadily from the piano.

Music, and the world as he knew it, was carefully planned. There was no room for mistake and, should a wrong note escape, the masterpiece would be ruined.

Everything had a place of its own and everything must have a strict schedule.

There was no such thing as spontaneity for Roderich Edelstein.

That was until Gilbert Beilschmidt came barreling right into his life.

Loud, callous, daring, obnoxious, brash. And German, though he had always strongly insisted that he was Prussian.

Gilbert Beilschmidt, who had, from the first day they met, irritated the young musician to no end. From when he first literally kicked open the doors and asked him if he was the 'prissy Austrian', oh, Roderich had immediately singled him it as his most hated person on the planet.

He had always cursed rules to hell, said that the monotonous, repetitive cycle of Roderich's life was so utterly _boring._

He didn't even bother being polite, that barbarian.

In the hallways when they would pass each other, Roderich would give him the most condemning stare his gentlemanly self would muster; and he in turn was rewarded with leers and smirks and feet that stretched out to trip him.

Gilbert Beilschmidt was strange and annoying and, above all things, spontaneous.

He never seemed to directly obey anything or anyone; nothing ever went according to plan with him around. Oh, no. He loved to make things up as he went along, depended on luck more than strategy, and have a blast while at it.

To Roderich, one raised to predictable events and immaculately detailed arrangements, this unwelcome visitor was the most confusing person he had ever encountered.

If he was compared to a song, Roderich had mused once on a still evening as he sat in front of his piano to play, Gilbert would be a wild symphony; one to be played with quick, rapid movements, a body that swayed with passion and fingers that pounded on ivory keys.

Energetic, lively, bold, unfamiliar.

Spontaneous.

~  
_Right, I may have taken an interest to writing again. I have no idea if it's writer's block or simply laziness and my inability to come up with a decent plot._

_Anyways, this wasn't at all intended to be romantic, for all you PruAus shippers out there; this was merely a drabble on these two. Mainly on Roderich's confusion at Gilbert's spontaneity._

_But then, as I have said in my last fic, I leave that up to your imaginations._


	3. Tranquil - SpaMano

Lovino Vargas was unaccustomed to the strange, peaceful silence that now hung in the golden fields. It was a rarity; with his grandfather in town and the horrid radio wasn't blaring any more.

Feliciano was napping inside, as he knew all too well, with the cat curled up by his feet and the aroma of just-cooked pasta swathing the house.

With the orange sun now making its way behind pink and peach tinted clouds, the dappled shade of an oak tree above him and a breeze ruffling his dark hair, he almost felt...calm.

He sighed, tilting his head back to see through the thick foliage of leaves. It all seemed so surreal now, so serene and quiet and tranquil.

It was only a matter of time before his grandfather would come bursting through the doors and his boisterous laugh and voice would come floating over the fields as he would thank Feliciano for the pasta.

"Hello, Lovino."

He snapped his head to the side, startled by the voice that had shattered the silence, and he was staring into the smiling green eyes of Antonio Fernandez Carriedo.

It was a little too long before he finally spoke.

"What do you want?"

"Nothing," Antonio answered easily, sitting down beside Lovino. "Uh, you don't mind, do you?" His voice was almost hopeful, and he's smiling so earnestly that Lovino doesn't say anything to object and only shrugs.

They sit in silence. The only sound comes from Antonio's guitar and soft, low humming; and for once Lovino doesn't tell him to play somewhere else. It's almost...nice, really. Tunes flow smoothly, songs merging into one another. Wordless, meaningless really, yet neither of them mind at all.

~  
_Well, that was...short._

_*cries in the corner cause I can't even write anything decent for my OTP what kind of fan am I*_

_I swear to god, though, I will write another Spamano short one day, and it will be meaningful!_

_...well, as meaningful as my writing gets, anyway._


	4. Accubation - AmeCan

It was ten in the morning when Matthew found Alfred posing on his bed with half a burger stuffed up his mouth.

It wasn't surprising, actually - Alfred hardly ever woke up before nine thirty on weekends, and today was a Saturday. And as for the eating, well, what would be surprising was when he _wasn't _eating. Still, the default question escaped his mouth without letting him think.

"What are you doing?"

From the mess of about a dozen blankets and pillows, Alfred looked up, grinned at his half-brother, and swallowed. "This, Matthew, bro," he said in a very as-a-matter-of-factly way, "is the art of accubation."

"Accubation," Matthew repeated tiredly. "And what, may I ask, is that?" _And where the hell did you learn that word?_

"The thing old rich ancient people do. Like, posing on seats like 'paint me one of your French girls'" - Alfred shifted to a much more...dramatic pose, took another bite, and continued. "And then they, like, eat that way." He gestured to the box under his bed that Matthew knew held a stash of food. "But I guess they had pretty servants dropping grapes into their mouths, heh..."

"And they have a name for that kind of thing."

"Yup."

"I see." Matthew turned on his heel to leave, but before exiting the door he said over his shoulder, "Also, Arthur says you can't eat those at this time of the day. I can make you an actual breakfast if you want."

"Can I have it on the sofa?" Alfred called from his room.

Matthew rolled his eyes and shut the door. "No."

_Um, yes, this story is actual proof that I cannot ever be funny no matter how hard I try._

_I was looking for more words, and somehow landed onthis looooong list of really odd words. I found this particular one kinda okay and churned out this thing._

_Also, the North American bros are freaking adorable; nuff said._


End file.
